


One Destination Found

by calderaNightOwl



Series: Fate Came Early [2]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, Murphy's Law
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28257774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calderaNightOwl/pseuds/calderaNightOwl
Summary: Twenty minutes after they pass the Missouri state line the truck engine starts spitting fumes. Stranded on the side of the road with Bones and little Joanna, and a three hour walk into the nearest town, Jim thinks the situation’s not looking too great. Then they get the amber alert.… at least the baby’s not crying.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Leonard "Bones" McCoy
Series: Fate Came Early [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2070006
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	One Destination Found

**Author's Note:**

> \- this is a direct sequel to Two Trips Taken and probably won't make sense if it’s read as a standalone  
> \- underage is tagged because Jim is 16 in this and the rating may go up as this veers into slash, make of that what you will  
> \- in case anyone is unfamiliar, an amber alert is part of an automated messaging system used for child abductions in the United States

The sky has that powder-soft look at pre-dawn, as if the haze is substantial enough to reach out and touch – almost solid in its softness. While the rest of the world – the road, the fields, the forests – those are the true ethereal other-worldly illusions that morning’s light is trying to pass off as reality.

There are a lot of things, McCoy thinks, that had looked solid enough under the noonday sun that lost their firm grip on objectivity as soon as the shadows changed.

Time travel.

Holy fuck. Had that actually happened?

McCoy slumps down into the familiar rumble of the truck’s engine as the events of the last day finally sink in. He tries to reassure himself that, yes, reality is still here. He’s still firmly enmeshed in it. He hasn’t floated off, unmoored by a ripple in gravity or been picked apart particle by particle like a malfunctioning transporter would have done to him – leaving him as pieces scattered in the ether.

McCoy shivers.

His counterpart, Bones, as both Jims called him, had been transported right out of this out of this reality. Out of this timeline. Out of this universe.

He sneaks a quick glance to the backseat, craning his neck around to get a glimpse of Joanna, sound asleep in her car seat.

It unsettles him. That there’s another thing out there, more than just death, that could take him from her.

McCoy looks out the window. At the rush of back country lands surrounding this old interstate. He brings up one hand to the glass, and drags his fingertips across the surface, eking out a smearing squeak of a sound.

There’s this side of him, he supposes, that comes out in the dark – in the 4 AMs, when he’s unable to sleep, sitting in the kitchen, breathless and panting for no good reason other than a train of unconscious thought coming a touch too close to the edge of what his mind is able to handle – when he’s afraid of the tiny mundane anxieties deciding to play with his wellbeing – and when he’s not-afraid at all because he’s invincible, nothing could hurt him – when the moment stretches out, forever and stopped, timeless – an unreality.

That’s when he gets maudlin and melodramatic.

It’s in the early mornings and the late nights when he marvels at how his breath fogs up the window panes and how the treads of his shoes crunch on the hard frozen blades of grass in the frost.

It’s when he wonders. When he self-reflects. When something so dramatic happens, that he’s knocked off his feet by the ghost of whatever corporeal form fate has decided to take in order to mar his soul with a scar that appears at once looking like it’s been there forever – that’s when he has no choice but to stare up at the sky from the ground. And his self-reflection takes on a new tone. He’s not looking at himself anymore. He’s out of body. He’s looking at the universe.

A new viewpoint. His life forever-after – altered. Because the scenic majesty of the soft purpling sky rising before him – that takes his breath away.

You can’t unsee beauty. You can’t unsee pain – or the ways in which reality makes itself known by running straight through these arbitrary lines of logic and society that you set up in your life to make sense of things.

Work. School. Family. Relationships.

They’re not separate. They’re the fabric of the social order. Society’s a quilt, this square’s home. That square’s school. They’re sewn together, but you never see the stitch. Tug on one square and the whole blanket goes flying off the bedspread.

It’s when he realizes that everything’s connected. Everything matters because nothing matters because everything he does reflects back on everything that’ll _ever_ happen to him.

He stops – and takes stock. Because he could think himself in circles for hours – days – and McCoy has always been a more practical man than that, no matter his maudlin mood. What is he grateful for? What is still here – what is still true and factual?

He flexes his fingers against the glass, leaving smudging fingerprints all over. His health. He’s grateful for that. Joanna’s entire being. He glances at her – again – safe and sound, still asleep. He’s grateful for her.

He glances at Jim behind the wheel. Kid must be getting tired. They’d driven straight through the night. … He thinks he might be grateful for Jim, too.

…

How do you go back to normalcy? How do you do the same things over and over again when the whole world’s been knocked off its axis?

McCoy’s not anything special. Life. Death. The eternal circle of new endings and old beginnings. He’s felt this before. _Everyone’s_ felt this before.

The more he saw his patients die – the more of them that died – the further divorced he’d become from the circle itself.

Now – now someone has gone around and flipped the circle in on itself, tore it apart, and tied it up, twisted it into a mobius strip, somehow even more infinite than it had been before – and McCoy’s not even on the circle – he’s in the center, movement restricted, no idea where he’s supposed to go. No longer on the path that used to stretch out before him – over and over, day in and day out with his old life’s rhythms.

…

What does anyone do when a miracle comes? What does anyone do when tragedy hits?

…

They move forward. Simple as that. Duck under the obstacle, untangle themselves from their own inhibitions.

The rumble of the engine vibrates up his shoes, into his legs, and chills find their way into his spine.

Jim and McCoy roll down the interstate with the sun’s morning light bathing them in the dawn of a new day. A comfortable silence stretches between them that’s as long as the road before them.

◦◦◦

It’s not just the smoke that clues Jim into the fact that there’s a problem. No, the way the entire cab is ratcheting and jumping makes it pretty obvious that there’s at least a cylinder misfiring.

Jim pulls over, shuts off the engine, flicks on the flashers and pops the hood. Honestly, he’s not that surprised the truck decided now was the time to conk out. They’d clocked more distance on the odometer in the last day and a half than Jim can remember in well, ever.

Bones, thankfully, doesn’t question Jim’s competence, just watches warily as Jim gets out and steps around the front bumper.

“Think you can fix it?” Bones calls after a minute, head propped up out of the side of the passenger door window, in an effort to see Jim past the pickup’s hood.

“We’ll see.” Jim says because, although it’s not looking promising, he’s jerry-rigged solutions to problems tougher than this before.

Bones sighs. “Guess now is as good a time as any for a bottle.”

Jim hears the zip on the diaper bag being undone and the beep-tone of the thermo-regulating bottle powering on.

Working steadily, Jim eliminates all the obvious potential problems. He can tell exactly when Bones is done feeding Joanna, because he hears sing-songing, in stereo-typical babytalk,

“That’s it Joanna. Burp for Daddy. Oh, good girl. You love Daddy most, don’t you? Not that fake future Daddy.”

Jim hides his grin by tucking his chin into his chest, even though he knows Bones can’t see him hunched over the engine.

“Future Daddy might have big strong muscles and be all growly, but I’m your real Daddy. Yes, I am.”

“Can you start up the engine?” Jim calls.

Bones coughs abruptly.

Then the starter clicks. And clicks. And clicks. The engine does not turn over.

Jim groans. The non-start is most likely an entirely separate problem.

“You want me to try it again?” Bones asks.

“No.” Jim shuts the hood and walks back around to the cab door. “We need a tow. Even if I figure out what’s wrong, we probably don’t have the parts for a repair.” Jim climbs into the driver’s seat.

Bones pulls out his comm. He jaw clenches.

“What is it?”

“Fucking figures.”

“Language.” Jim steals the comm out of Bones’ hands. “Little ears.” He nods at Joanna.

He looks at the screen. There’s no service.

They won’t be able to call for a tow, because this far out in the back country the old cell-towers had never been replaced with comm signal repeaters. People who live out here usually bought signal converters for their houses. The converters are about three times slower than the new comm tech, but fifty times cheaper than ripping out and replacing the entire communications infrastructure.

Any car built in the last century has signal converters installed as a part of the standard package. Of course, the truck is almost as old as the cell towers themselves. It does not have a signal converter.

Bones’ face falls and he shakes his head. “This is my fault.”

“Pretty sure it’s my truck that just broke down.” _His_ truck that didn’t have a signal converter installed.

“But you wouldn’t have even been out here if I didn’t need a ride.”

Ok, then. Jim had thought – no, no matter what Jim thought.

“Like I was really going to just strand you in Iowa?” Jim’s tone comes out more biting than he intended.

Bones runs a hand down the front of his face in exasperation. “I could have ordered a paid lift.”

“And been swindled out of a small fortune to cross state lines. If you didn’t want me here you could have just said so.” Jim jumps back out of the cab.

“No! That’s not-”

Jim slams the door shut behind him and starts walking away.

◦◦◦

McCoy catches up to Jim half an hour later. It had taken him a good fifteen minutes to dig out the baby swaddle and remember which arm went through which loop to get the thing on right-side up and Joanna strapped onto his chest.

Jim is sitting on the loose packed dirt of the roadside, back against the bottom of a signpost, knees drawn up to his chest and arms hugging tight against his shins.

McCoy sits down beside him.

Jim doesn’t look up. He turns his sullen expression away from McCoy to rest his face on his other cheek.

McCoy waits.

The sun beats down and despite their little tiff, it’s beautiful out here. The air is so clean with each breath. He swears he can smell the greenery of the grass-covered hills that roll out in front of him. Rustles of leaves sing through the air with each sweep of wind in the trees. McCoy takes it all in.

“I was planning on leaving Iowa anyways.” Jim says.

“I know.” There’s a hastily packed bag of essentials still sitting in the backseat next to Joanna’s empty car seat, and Jim’s bike resting on the flatbed, attesting to the fact.

“I wasn’t just leaving Iowa.” _I was leaving with you_ , goes unspoken but mutually understood.

McCoy lets out a breath. “I know.” He runs a hand down Joanna’s back, tries to settle himself. “But I’m the adult here. I’m supposed to be the responsible one.”

Jim swings his face over to make eye contact. “I can take care of myself just fine.”

“Christ Jim! You shouldn’t have to. You’re only sixteen!” McCoy’s voice catches. “I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if something happened to you.”

A wake of air currents brushes up against them as a car breezes by on the road. McCoy doesn’t stop to think about how it’s the only other car he’s seen in the last hour.

“I wasn’t going to leave you in Iowa. But _I_ let you drive us in that rusty bag of bolts instead of just hiring the exorbitantly expensive cab. So, yes this is all _my_ fault.”

Jim opens his mouth as if to say something but closes it just as fast before he sits forward, leaning into one knee to stand up and start walking away. Again.

Five paces in, he whirls around to face McCoy. He points his finger accusatorily.

“Don’t use my age as a convenient excuse not to treat me as an equal!” He looks at McCoy expectantly, waiting for a rebuff, another argument.

McCoy is sick of arguing. He doesn’t know what to say to appease Jim.

When the silence starts to stretch out, Jim says slowly, expression no less serious, “It’s both our faults we’re stuck here.” As if the level of emphasis with which he says it will make it into the truth.

And even though McCoy doesn’t exactly agree with that, he says, “Yeah, alright.”

◦◦◦

The bike in the back of the pickup isn’t running either. Because, of fucking course it isn’t running.

Jim at least looks slightly sheepish, when he explains he was in the process of upgrading it. A quarter of its engine guts still attached but not properly connected– in preparation for replacement with bigger and better alternatives.

McCoy huffs a sigh, and they start walking.

They pass some turnoffs from the main road as they walk. At each one, McCoy stops to look through the undergrowth and tries to ascertain exactly how far it might be to get to a house. If they could just knock on somebody’s door and borrow a comm or use their signal converter –that line of thought is the way that lies madness.

If a house was twenty minutes down the turnoff – and no one was home – down and back to the main road, that’s forty minutes gone.

Two or three of those and they’d lose hours.

It couldn’t be more than another hour or two of walking to get to some kind of civilization. A good hike wasn’t going to kill them.

It ends up being another thirty-five minutes. They don’t reach a town – but the comm signal finally comes through. A series of beeps sound as the backlog of alerts get processed.

McCoy stops walking and watches Jim pull out his comm. “Think it’s worth it calling a tow to come pick us up now, or should we just suck it up and finish the walk to town?” McCoy asks as he waits for Jim to delete the series of messages. He’ll check his comm later, he doesn’t want to have to deal with digging it out of the diaper bag with Joanna still strapped to his front.

“Depends how far the closest auto-shop is to town. It might be–” Jim freezes, his hand hovering.

“Well? It might what?”

Jim swallows. “You should look at this.”

McCoy doesn’t know if he really wants to see whatever’s got Jim so spooked but he takes the comm anyways when its passed over.

_[11:47 AM] *** [Automated Alert] 10-month-old girl, Joanna, suspected to be in company of father, 22-year-old white male, last seen in stolen red pickup truck license #XXXXXX. Please report any sightings to the authorities ***_

“What the fuck is this?”

“Don’t throw it. We still need that.” Jim grabs his arm, steadying.

“They think I- they think I-” _kidnapped his own little girl_.

“Hey! Breathe.”

McCoy gasps air into his lungs. He looks down at Joanna, his angel, so well-behaved all day yesterday and today. He cannot believe that anyone would try to accuse him of bringing harm to her.

“How?” McCoy manages to get out.

“Somebody had to have reported her missing.” Jim is staring at where McCoy’s protective hands are curling around Joanna’s back.

“But how did they get the plates to the truck? Jim said he took out the security feeds at the hospital!”

Jim nods, eyebrows furrowed. “Frank must’ve reported the truck as stolen. He’s got the title. The only question is how they connected you to the truck.”

McCoy’s stomach drops out from under him. The older captain Jim might’ve taken out the security feeds at the hospital, but he hadn’t taken out the security feeds at the house. There was only one answer.

“Jocelyn.”


End file.
